I looked down the aisle: two men were about my size, the last a giant, standing almost seven feet tall, an angry scowl hanging low on his face. I heard the double blast of horns, the referee approached…time for another draw.
I reached in and, this time, drew the color red. Again, I looked at the others. The giant opened his enormous, skillet-like hand and there, on his palm, lay the other red stone. I drew a sharp breath that sounded more like a gasp as I dragged my gaze from the tiny red stone, up to his huge, menacing face.
Abruptly, someone pushed us backward and into the arena, then someone else handed each of us a wooden training flail and wooden shield, and then led us back into the ring. The training flail consisted of a length of chain attached to a block of wood on one side, and a strong handle on the other.
A horn’s blast sounded pure and loud, then rose by a fifth.
The giant man lumbered across the dirt floor of the arena toward me while swinging the heavy flail around in a huge circle, like a lasso, high over his head. A bellowing “Aaaaarrrrrrrhhhh!” rang from his enormous mouth and seemed to fill the still air in the ring. With just a few long strides, he towered over me.
My flail felt suddenly useless. The chain was too long and there wasn’t enough time to get it turning with much velocity. The huge man looming above me turned his hips with more agility than I expected, and I saw his flail hurtling toward me. I lifted my shield to take the brunt of his tremendous blow. Even though it was only a wooden flail, not iron, and only a training competition, not a real fight-to-the-death battle, I still feared for my life.
The thundering crack-crunch! of his flail hitting my shield exploded in my ears. The impact felt like I had been hit by a cannon ball, and the force splintered my shield in two.
The collision knocked me onto my back, sending painful shockwaves vibrating though my hands and up my arms. But now we were both too close together to have much use for a swinging flail. Without showing any emotion, the giant lifted his pointed shield high into the air, pivoted his hips sharply and dropped down on one knee as he brought the heavy wood powerfully earthward.
Watching it slice though the air toward me, I waited…then rolled my head to the side just before it made contact…and glanced off my helmet. His shield landed like a falling tree, shaking the ground where I lay. I turned to see the shield, which appeared to be his new weapon of choice, was sunk deep into the dirt…only inches from my face. Like a spade splitting hard soil.
This was my chance. With the giant’s flail useless, I gripped onto half of my destroyed shield and spun around with everything I had. The sharp edge slammed into his oversized, horse-like right leg just inside his kneecap. A hollow, echoing thwack! of wood smashing against bone shot through the arena.
The giant toppled like a crumbling stone wall and sprawled on the ground, clutched his knee and howled in pain. I stood immediately and grabbed the heavy wooden block of my training flail with both hands. As I lifted the weapon, the chain dangled down to its unused wooden handle.
Sitting now, the crippled giant looked up at me, horror, shock, and surprise showing in his eyes. My heavy block came down squarely on top of his helmet, jerking his head awkwardly to the side. His body went limp, then he collapsed to the ground, unconscious. I heard the roar of the crowd erupt from all around me. My heart swelled in my chest as I realized I had won round two.
And yet, even as I stood looking on the unconscious man at my feet, I could only think about how I wished my father could have been here to witness the skills I had learned over the many years of training. Soon, I would be fighting side by side with the king and none of this was ever going to matter, but I still dearly missed his presence.
My attendant led me back to the podium, where the last remaining competitor stood. He was about my height and weight, and I could see a trail of blood running down his forehead. We were each given a wooden training sword and ushered quickly back out into the arena.
The horn sounded long and pure, then rose by a fifth and, finally, the arena went silent. He didn’t charge like the others had. We began to circle each other like hungry wolves, and I watched how he held his sword down low and firm and I knew then I would win the competition.
I raised my sword and stepped forward. The surprising action caught him off guard and his basic survival instincts took over.
He lifted up hard on his sword—exactly what I wanted him to do.
The full weight of my training sword pounded down on the hilt of his,Thwack! I heard bones crunching as his weapon fell to the ground.
In one fluid motion I flew in close, pivoting my weight back for more power, then brought my elbow down and forward, connecting squarely to the center of his face.
Again, bones shattered. Blood exploded from the bridge of his nose and across both cheekbones. His eyes rolled back into his head as he fell to the ground. I raised my weapon high over my head and paused in the kill position. The crowd went wild. The horn blew again, this time a quick flurry of fifth-octave blasts.
The competition was over.
I had won.
My heart raced as an attendant led me back to the podium. The headmaster placed a champion scholar medal around my neck. The crowds cheered louder as the horns trumpeted their splendid fanfare. I looked down and saw the other seven competitors looking back at me stoically while clapping.
I pulled in a full breath of fresh air and then exhaled slowly, feeling all of my anxiety melting away. Just then I spotted my driver, Macgregor, coming out of the crowd, approaching the podium.
I felt glad to see him there. Over the years I’d become accustomed to having the great big Scotsman by my side. He wore the fine wrinkles of time around his eyes like badges of honor, and a full supply of reddish-blonde hair on his head like a crown.
Macgregor had an easy way about him, and always gave me a knowing smile. Each morning he helped me get ready for whichever training events the day held, and then each night, before bed, he helped me to fall sleep by telling a story about my father’s glorious and unheralded bravery on the battlefield.
Macgregor had a tear welling in his eye and he hugged me tightly. I still couldn’t help feeling saddened that my father had not been here to share this moment. I missed him, as always, and knew he would be home soon, but it was still nice to have Macgregor at my side.
“Vladdie my boy, you made me more than a wee bit proud, ye hear me now, young lad,” he said in his always affable—and thick—Scottish brogue. “And I know, as sure as the sun rises, your father would be more than a wee bit proud of you as well.”
I nodded back to him, realizing Macgregor had become more than just my driver or my caretaker. He had become more like family. I bid adieu to the other competitors and returned to the carriage, still glowing with the thrill of victory, still yearning to tell my father the news.
* * *
As we traveled home from the competition, my thoughts again went to the poor injured girl in the woods. I instructed Macgregor to head into town instead of going directly back to the castle. As we pulled to a stop on the town’s main road, the sounds of the open market filled the coach. I noticed the townspeople gathered at today’s street fair urgently bartering with one another, buying or trading for their needed supplies. Some men were paying with golden forints and others trading with their various goods like animal skins, meat, and tools.
“Macgregor, where can I find the constable?” I asked, stepping down from the carriage.
“Aye, Vladdie, the constable goes by the name Augustin, and I would be guess’n you’d find him somewhere out there in the market watch’n over the tradin’ for thieves and hooligans and the like.”
“Very good, Macgregor, thank you,” I said as I walked directly into the crowd. I thought about how long it had been since I’d stood out amongst our good townspeople. The last several years had become so overwhelming with the many responsibilities of being the prince of Wallachia, I rarely even le
ft the castle grounds anymore, instead spending all of my time training and studying.
I watched the traders buzzing around with high energy, aggressively haggling with one another, attempting to acquire their needed rations while giving up the very least amount in return. I had not been to one of our street fairs in far too long, and I began to realize things had changed. The bartering now seemed overly aggressive—even angry and bitter at times. Bands of hooligans gathered around, yelling threatening remarks at our townspeople as they passed by.
I spotted the constable in the crowd and approached him.
“I say, are you the one called Augustin, the town’s constable?” I asked. “I am the Prince of Wallachia, Vlad, the third.”
“Yes, my lord, how may I be of service?”
“I happened upon an injured girl in the forest, just off the road and away from a narrow wooden bridge. She had a particularly interesting injury to her neck,” I explained. “I tried to be of assistance to her, but, oddly, she ran off into the forest, vanishing in a small, dilapidated house.”
I watched the man’s eyes go wide, then his face go white.
“In-injury to the neck, you say?” His startled eyes shifted left to right.
“Yes, and a large wolf roamed about as well. Would you mind going out and finding her? Maybe just ask her if she needs any assistance?”
“Of course, my lord,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Those woods can be very dangerous for a girl at night. Not a sane man would dare enter those woods after dark. The creatures are stirring, my lord. The moon will be full as well,” he said, his voice low and trembling.
“Thank you, Augustin, and will you please send word up to the castle regarding her condition?”
“Yes my lord, I’ll gather a search party just soon as the sun comes up.”
“Very well. Good evening to you, sir.”
I turned and started walking back toward the coach, gazing out one final time at the fervor of the crowds. I immediately noticed one particular girl selling wool. Something about her drew my attention. She had bright eyes that seemed to shine through the crowd, almost glowing under the dirt smeared across her face.
Her clothes were stained and threadbare, even torn in many places, and I could see she wore no shoes. I couldn’t help but feel saddened as I stepped up onto the carriage and got inside, still looking back as Macgregor called out to the horses and cracked his whip, leading us home.
Just before sundown we arrived at the castle, tired and hungry. I bid Macgregor a good night and walked through the enormous common room, thoughts of my great victory still swimming around in my mind. I felt like celebrating the win, but with who? While there were many people working in the castle, I may as well have been alone.
I watched the servants milling around, working and cleaning and cooking, all looking so serious. Something about the castle seemed so empty…so cold. I stood in the enormous entrance hall, suddenly missing my mother. I told myself that soon I would be gloriously riding into battle, side by side with the king. I would join our army in battle, become a celebrated warrior, and make my father proud.
The castle’s head caretaker, Alexandru, suddenly approached from out of the shadows.
“Good evening Vlad,” he said from behind thin strands of oily-black hair that hung over his eyes. His icy voice grated on my mind as he stood there rigidly, staring at me.
“I’ve come to find that you arrived late to the Tournament of Champions in Targoviste today.”
“Yes, Alexandru, but—”
“But nothing!” he snapped back, a flash of anger showing in his eyes. “You have brought shame into our castle, and you will soon learn, one way or another, of the importance of showing respect to your superiors. By the authority of the king, you shall remain in your quarters until further notice, and you shall go without your evening meal,” he declared. “No arguments. You are dismissed.” And with that, he turned on his heel and hurried away.
* * *
I made my way up to my quarters still thinking about how unfair my punishment had been, and realizing I had not eaten much all day. After several hours my stomach began to growl.
I found myself pacing the floor in my quarters until a soft knock sounded at my door. To my pleasant surprise I found our head chef, Mr. Iordache standing outside my room in the hall. In his hands he held a small plate under a high-domed silver cover.
“Our secret then, Prince Vlad?” he whispered with both eyebrows rising high. He opened the lid, showing me a plate of freshly grilled pork and onions, sliced apples, and several pieces of fresh bread. “And by the way,” he said, “congratulations on your most honorable victory at the tournament this morning—the townspeople will be deeply pleased to hear of it as well.”
I felt a smile tugging up at my lips, and my heart suddenly begin to thaw. I slowly nodded back to the man, taking the meal from his hands. I saw his eyes suddenly dart down the hallway nervously, as if someone might be quickly approaching.
“Thank you, chef,” I replied, and silently closed the door.
I strode across the room, placed the dish on the windowsill and ate, quite possibly, the best meal I had ever had while standing up.
Later that evening, I climbed the long, spiraling stone stairs, to the top of the highest point in our castle. I walked out under the high-arched doorway made from smooth, hand-carved stone blocks, and then silently gazed past the wide landing and beyond.
Soon, in my honor, there would be a tremendous celebration. The townspeople would gather in the castle for a traditional gala to commemorate the day I turn eighteen years old, rightly coming of proper age and officially qualified to be the next leader of Wallachia if needed. And now, the ceremony will also acknowledge my great victory at the Royal Training Academy, bringing good luck to our critical spring harvest. I should have been happy, but as I stood there, silently, on my perch atop the castle’s highest point, watching for my father’s return, none of that mattered.
The view from this high perch overlooked greater Wallachia and farther out into the great expanse of Transylvania, with its fortress-like snow-covered mountains, and lush, deep green forests. From here, I could see for many miles, far past the sheer cliffs of the Transylvanian Alps, across the gorge and into the flat marshlands near Balteni, before finally leading out to the vast Black Sea. From this spot, I could see an approaching army from a whole day’s travel. I could see my father’s men returning from battle and have many hours to prepare to greet them.
They had built this perch to be a lookout for approaching armies, but rarely used it. No army would be foolish enough to march onto this castle, considering its location on top of a steep mountainside with only one winding road leading up it...and protected by the hundreds of feet of sheer cliffs on three of her four sides. We also feel safe here because the great strength of the combined Wallachian armies strike such deadly fear in the hearts of our enemies.
* * *
So I waited, longing to see my father and tell him of my victory. We had received word that he would soon return, but as the hours dragged on, I began to worry that something terrible had happened. I feared my father had been injured or, worse, maybe even killed. I told myself it would not be possible—the king of Wallachia is the greatest warrior this land has ever seen, and ever will see. I knew he would return with stories of great victories.
And soon, as a man of full age, I would be able to hear those stories directly from my father’s lips instead of from a servant’s relay.
I counted the minutes from my high perch as I watched the sun travel across the blue, cloudless sky and then begin its nightly demise down beyond the mountains, bleeding out into the sea. As the dusky night began to settle in around me, memories of my mother suddenly came flooding back into my mind. My chest ached as I lamented how she fell tragically ill and died from the plague when I was only five years old.
Macgregor had brok
en the horrible news to me by saying, “She’s sleeping in a wonderful land called heaven.” I didn’t begin to understand what that meant until months later when I asked Macgregor when my mother would be waking up from heaven. Then he told me “never.” And I cried harder than I ever had before. He’d cried too, letting me know the importance of the future king to show courage.
I realized then that my legacy would be bigger than a boy missing his mother, and I would have to consider the fate of every man, women, and child in our land, protecting them as best I could.
* * *
As the days came and went, I found myself still there on my perch, waiting for the king’s return. Tonight, as the velvety shawl of nightfall embraced the castle, I stared out, over the cliffs and across the vastness of the valley below and beyond to the unrelenting sea. I still felt a sharp loneliness as it gripped at my heart. A tear appeared from nowhere, slowly rolling from my eye, sliding down my face like a glistening shard of broken glass, shattering into a million pieces against the castle’s cold and unforgiving stone floor.
I missed my mother, and yearned to see my father again. The day had finally come. I knew in my heart that tomorrow, when I turned eighteen and joined the ranks of great warriors who fought for our kingdom, they would both be very proud. Even though my mother was no longer with me, my father was, and I couldn’t wait to tell him everything.
I opened my eyes the next morning as the sun came up, its warmth soothing my skin and pushing away the morning’s bitter cold. The wind blew in hard from the east and I could hear our flags whipping loudly around from above. I had again fallen asleep sitting on my landing, waiting for my father. I quickly stood and scanned far into the distant terrain, but saw nothing. No sign of him or our army.
Despite my disappointment, I felt a wry smile forming on my face as I realized that, as I slept, I had turned eighteen. I had become of age, the official Prince of Wallachia, and this will be the best day of my life.
I heard the echo of footsteps approaching from under the huge archway, up from the long flight of stone stairs that led down into the castle’s interior. It was Macgregor.
“Young Vladdie!” he scolded me in his usual gruff voice. “You’ve been sittin’ there all night a’gan, have ya? You’ll catch your death of cold out here, don’t ya know. Come inside man, and I’ll have a warm bath drawn for ya at once, son.”
Vampire Mafia: Santa Cruz Page 15